


The Guardian

by cellard00rs



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Internalized Homophobia, Language, M/M, Self-Esteem Issues, Suicide Attempt, Twincest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-23
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2019-03-08 15:23:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13461063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cellard00rs/pseuds/cellard00rs
Summary: Stan meets a stranger. Or does he?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The original titles of this fic was 'Kisses From Angels' - which I hated. It also started off as a one-shot, but now has morphed into something bigger, hence the name change. Please make sure to keep an eye on the tags, as they'll be updated as the chapters update based upon things that might take place. Make sure to keep yourself safe, as this story will contain serious content matter such as attempted suicide, attempted sexual assault, etc.

The sound of Stan’s boxing gloves hitting the punching bag echoes back to him, a steady staccato beat that matches his heart in its intensity. It’s only day two of his banishment and, unsurprisingly, not one damn thing is better. The owner of the gym, Mr. Mulroney, is letting him work out his frustrations after hours because, hey, he knows the Pines kid and he’s alright, isn’t he?

Ha!

Mulroney doesn’t know about it. No one does. How can they? It isn’t like they can look at Stan and just know he’s been disowned. That he’s lost his home, his family, his brother, his…everything.

He imagines the punching bag exploding beneath the force of his hits, but no matter how hard he strikes, the bag remains as resilient and immovable as the train wreck that’s his life. He’s steadily working through the small bits of money he has. What’s he going to do tomorrow? A week from now? Two months from…

…god, it can’t go on that long can it? His father’ll forgive him by then, right? He’ll be allowed to come home. He couldn’t possibly have really meant it. He’s his _Dad_ for Christ’s sake and Sixer…

… _Sixer turning away from him, closing the curtains_ …

The next punch hurts. He swears he can feel it through the cushion of the glove and suddenly he really does want to feel it. He rips off the gloves off and goes at the bag bare knuckled and now he can _feel_ the pain, the pure rush of it. The fresh burst of agony and it’s real and perfect and he hits the bag again and again, over and over, and his fingers ache. Bruising and bleeding and he sees a burst of crimson and ignores it, fire and rage in his veins, because what the fuck? Just – WHAT the FUCK!

 His life is over. It’s _over_.

… _turning away from him, closing the curtains_ …

He can’t stop _seeing_ it.

… _closing the curtains_ …

Seeing and feeling and oh god, oh Jesus, oh…

… _closing_ …

He huffs and pants and suddenly he slips, shaky knees giving out, fingers sticky with blood and his face, _fuck_ , his face is _wet_. He collapses into a heap on the mats and a choked sound escapes him and god, fucking _dammit_! He doesn’t want – _doesn't want_!

Stan hears a door hinge squeak and he pauses, sucks in the emotion clogged in his throat. Mucus and tears and all that gross shit that comes with crying and shit, he _cried_. He fucking _hates_ crying. Sobbing like a little girl on the floor and he rubs at his face, wincing at the sting of his various body fluids mixing as they come in contact with one another. Blood, sweat, tears…gross.

He gets shakily to his feet, looking around the darkened gym. He doesn’t see anyone, so he licks his lips, does his best to clear his throat and sound normal, “Hey? Who’s there?”

No answer.

“That you, Mulroney?”

Again, not a sound.

“I’m…I’m just about done, if that’s you. Head…heading out now,” Stan sucks in a loudly through his nose, hoping it sounds more like a snort of confidence than anything else as he adds drolly, “Gotta-gotta get home, y’know?”

Mulroney, if it _is_ him, doesn’t respond, but Stan can just make out a shadowy figure to one side. Maybe it’s some other boxer Mulroney knows? Someone else given the green light to come here after the shop is considered closed. Someone who probably was looking forward to some privacy and Stan can respect that.

It’s more often than not better to work out without someone’s eyes on you. Especially when you’re using that exercise as an excuse to have a break down and dammit, he’s still embarrassed by how much of a tantrum he just threw.

Stan’s hands are going to be hurting something fierce tomorrow and he friggin’ _cried_ and now he’s gotta go clean up in his car (his home) with some shitty drive thru napkins and try to get some goddamn shut eye in the back seat and…

…and the shadowy figure comes into the light.

Stan doesn’t know why, but the guy gives him pause. Maybe because, well, he’s-he’s really fucking _hot_. Out of place in a joint like this, but _hot_. Stan does his best, nine times out of ten, not to think about how he’s attracted to dudes just as much as chicks because that’s just so _not_ something he should be into, but… _damn_. This guy…

He’s built. A little hard to tell under the thick red sweater, but Stan recognizes he’s got a body. The pants in particular, cling well to his thighs and Stan would be lying to himself if he said he wasn’t going to check out this guy’s ass on his way out. He’s betting it’s nice and round, a juicy apple of a thing. And past that his face. It’s a rugged piece of work. Square jawed, dimpled chin, and if it wasn’t for his hair being all grey, Stan would’ve pegged him in his early forties.

Hell, maybe his hair gave up early, but no…some wrinkles under his eyes, around his mouth. About Mulroney’s grandpa age and maybe they’re friends? Maybe he’s a maintenance man or something, ‘cause he doesn’t look like he’s come to work out. More nerdy than athletic with those glasses and…

…glasses…

Glasses like Sixer’s.

Maybe that’s what really gave Stan pause and he swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing because, oh great, _of_ _course_. He’s already had one thought he shouldn’t be having (men being just as foxy as women) so why not zero in on the number one thing he does his dammed best to not think about ever, ever.

Because yeah, finding guy’s attractive is one questionable thing, but to find your own _brother_ , attractive? Yeah. Maybe Pops wasn’t wrong to kick him out. To call him a waste of space, because, y’know, he’s seriously, seriously screwed up in every and all ways and he and this guy have just been standing here in silence, eyeballing one another so he clears his throat, “Um, hey…sorry. I’ll just…”

He walks over to his gym bag, legs feeling wobbly as he picks it up and tosses the strap over one shoulder. He goes to leave, barely walking past the guy when he gets a soft, “Stanley?”

Stan blinks and turns, “Uhhh…yeah?”

The guy looks at him, looks him right in the eyes, and Stan feels as if he’s been run through. Vertigo swarms all over him, because those eyes…so rich and so brown and full of concern and no one’s looked at him with concern in a long time and the last one who did…the last one who did, had eyes just like this. So much so that Stan can’t help but gasp, “Ford?”

The guy blinks as if surprised and Stan feels an immediate rush of stupidity. This guy ain’t Ford. He’s just some old geezer. Some super hot, super attractive, super…okay, okay, he’s gone on about the guy’s looks enough, the point is – this guy’s _not_ Ford.

Ford isn’t hitting close to sixty, so Stan shakes his head, trying to get the fog out of it as he murmurs, “Never mind. Just…I know you? You know me and you...mean, you kinda remind me of somebody, but you’re not-”

“No. I’m…not,” and the way the guy says it…it sounds like he’s lying. And that’s hilarious because, again, not Ford. Although he’s just as shitty at lying as Ford. Not that he’s lying, because he can’t be, so Stan tries again, feeling sillier by the minute, “Maybe we should try this again? I’m Stan. And you are?”

This gets him a dry laugh and this guy...he looks like he’s in _pain_ as he huffs, “I’m nobody.”

“Nobody, huh? Yeah, know how that goes,” Stan tries to keep the bitterness out of his voice, but he can’t help it, because, god, he _does_ know.

Still, he feels a smile pricking at his mouth because there’s something about this guy, something so…comforting, something familiar that he can’t explain but just feels in his bones, so much so that he gives into the smile, “Well Nobody, the gym’s yours if you’re wanting it. Like I said, gotta go-”

“-home. You said,” Nobody’s tone carries a sad, wry sound as he eyes him up and down, “But, um, it…it isn’t much of a home, is it?”

Stan’s grip goes to his gym bag, tightening on the strap as apprehension takes him, “Whatta ya mean?”

“The car, Stanley. It’s not-”

“Hey! You been watching me!” Stan wishes his voice wouldn’t uptick on the words, making him sound as scared as he feels but, okay, Nobody knows his name and knows he lives in his car and Stan hasn’t seen him before today no matter how much he might feel different and he thinks it’s only natural to be a little freaked out.

More so when Nobody just moves closer into his personal space and reaches out, one hand covering his, the other touching his face, “I’m sorry.”

Stan pulls from the touch as if burned, eyes wild, “You don’t even know me!”

“Stanley…”

“Stop saying it like that!” Stan snaps and he suddenly realizes why he’s so afraid as Nobody quietly asks, ‘why?’ and he quickly snaps back with, “Cause you sound just like him!”

And the moment the cry leaves him, Stan knows it’s true. This guy…this Nobody…he sounds just like Ford. _Exactly_ like Ford. When Ford says his name…

Stan’s heart is racing a mile a minute and he thinks…he thinks…

“Stanley? _Stanley_!”

It’s the last thing he hears before everything goes dark.

 

+

 

Really, Ford knows better. A LOT better.

And there was no reason to do this. There wasn’t. Stan would be _furious_ with him. He’d consider it an ultimate betrayal. But, well, the thing is, is that Ford just finished building a time machine. _A time machine_. One of the mechas of geek technology. He had had to test it out, right? And if he just so happened to choose a time in Stan’s history, well…

Ford hates himself. He really does. Hell, he’s done so all his life. His damned ego and arrogance are just a mask for that hatered. One he’s held so tightly, so stringently, that he’s ruined many, many lives. One in particular and Stan’s _fainted_. Well, _young_ Stan’s fainted and Ford is barely holding him up. God, was he this heavy when they were kids?

Ford does his best to rearrange his brother, to gently place him down to the mats and shit, shit, those _hands_. Ford picks up one of Stan’s ruined hands and tuts to himself. He wouldn’t be surprised if some of the fingers are broken, certainly jammed, and he gets to his feet to go find his coat.

He drew it off when he first entered; the humidity in the building a little too much for even him…or, well, maybe that’d just been from seeing a younger Stanley exercise, because when he exercised…

Ford can still vaguely recall avoiding watching Stanley work out in his youth because the sight…it was just a bit _too_ erotic for a kid working through a million and one problems. Problems like extra fingers, a shitty dad, and an uncertain future. One where his twin and best friend wanted him to go sailing around the world when all he really wanted to do was try to go to college and learn more. To grow more and to be separate and shit…he really _was_ a dumbass.

Still is, to be honest, and he finds what he needs to fix Stan up in his coat. It’s a bit of a cheat, but hey, why not? The technology he’s made should be used for _some_ good. Something better than summoning demons and interdimensional portals and Ford gently brushes an instrument over Stan’s wounds; watching skin quickly reknit and fix itself. In a few minutes Stan’s hands are as good as new and, once done, he looks at Stan’s face.

Christ, he’s so _young_.

And so _gorgeous_.

Not that he isn’t gorgeous _now_ ; but that’s a bridge he’ll never cross, because Ford Pines has ruined Stan Pines life for long enough. He _has_ to draw the line somewhere. Stan doesn’t need to know how gross and perverted Ford is. All Stan needs to know is how wonderful _Stan_ is. How he’s a _hero_ and how Ford is a hero’s brother. A brother who owes his hero _something_ and he can’t change history, but he can certainly help a little bit.

He props Stan up and can’t help but brush a hand along his cheek again. Thank god Stan didn’t notice his hands – that would have been a major tip off. But Stan had been a little bit too preoccupied – what with the crying and being startled by a stranger and shit, Ford did all of this wrong, but he just – he had to see.

He had to see what Stan was like after that night. He’d always wondered, and now he knows. Knows what a true piece of shit he is – that there dad was. Ford doesn’t know why on earth he never thought about this possibility before.

Oh.

Right.

Dumbass.

He shakes his head to himself and thinks about how he really did use his time machine for some good. Good enough to see what a fuck up he is and how much Stan’s life was a ruin because of him. Ford sighs, the sound ripping out from the deep center of him as Stan’s eyelids flutter and shit, kid’s gonna wake up soon and it’s probably best if he doesn’t wake up to Ford being here.

Again, Ford can’t change time, but he can help a little. He digs in his pocket and pulls out a couple of big bills. It doesn’t even _begin_ to cover or fix what’s going to happen, but it’s something at least, and Ford gently eases the money into Stan’s bag and he’s about to get his feet, about to leave, when he hears a weak, “Stanford?”

Ford’s eyes flash to him and Stan’s waking, but he’s not quite awake yet and Ford sure as hell knows better, but he uses his dumbassery as an excuse as he darts forward and presses a sweet, firm kiss to Stan’s forehead, his voice shaky as he begs, “I’m sorry. I’m…please forgive me…”

And then he’s gone.

 

+

 

“…the fuck?” Stan groans and he opens his eyes. He’s on the floor of the gym and…totally confused how he got there.  What was the last thing he remembered? Boxing…his hands…

He looks at his hands and finds they’re good. Great even. No blood, no pain. He could have _sworn_ he bare boxed them to shit. And then...some guy? Some older dude who made him think of Ford and…

…and did someone roofie him? How the fuck did he even _get_ roofied? He’s been homeless, what, two days now? And already he’s falling into dangerous territory? Stan gets to his feet and looks around and doesn’t see anybody. Not a blessed soul. His mind is still foggy and confused and he really doesn’t understand what just happened but he finds the back of one hand going to his forehead and rubbing there…rubbing at what felt like an impression of a kiss.

Maybe he was kissed by an angel.

Ha! Yeah. Right. Sure.

Stan shakes his head and makes for the exit, makes for his car and wonders if he can pull up enough change from the floorboards to eat tonight. Maybe he can even dig around in his gym bag again. Not that there’s ever much in there past the few articles of clothing he has, but, still. Who knows? Maybe he has some bills crumpled up and lost in some pocket.

He wakes out and rubs at the spot on his forehead again, thinking again about kisses from angels.


	2. Chapter 2

The sound of Stan’s boots on the ground is almost preternaturally loud. Rubber meeting with salt and snow-coated asphalt echoes in his ears as he walks down a lonely road, the streetlamps spaced so woefully apart as to make everything seem darker, grittier. The moon is out, full and white, a lonely sentinel, the stars not bothering to offer their punctuation as Stan looks up and sighs. His breath rises like a cloud as it meets the frigid air, but he doesn’t feel the temperature.

He doesn’t feel anything.

He’s wearing dirty jeans and a dirtier white shirt, black leather jacket thrown over top and it doesn’t offer much shelter from the winter weather, but what does that matter? His car (home) isn’t any warmer and he just…he doesn’t want to retreat into it tonight.

Hell, the way things are going, he’s probably gonna have to bite the bullet and sell the old girl. His forays into ‘sales’ has only served to get him run out of a couple of states and the last time he’d earned any scratch was from an impromptu bar brawl – one in which he was _not_ the victor.

But some people get their kicks in weird ways and apparently seeing someone get the shit kicked out of them is one of them. So, he’d earned a couple of bills for letting someone damn near beat him within an inch of his life. He’s healing from it – slowly. His ribs still ache when he breathes and his face – yeah, it isn’t a pretty picture. Not that it ever has been – but it’s looked leagues better than it does right now.

Right now the skin around his eyes is a wild palate of black, blue, and purple – the bridge of his nose a crusted crimson from where the skin split. A crimson that’s still peppered all along the collar of the very shirt he’s wearing. Yeah, he’d been a bleeder that night. A bleeder _and_ a loser. But what’s new? He _is_ a loser – always has been, always will be.

Stan finds himself reaching a bridge, the sound of rushing water finally drowning out the sound of his feet. He looks up to see thin metal railings and weak concrete as well as some bright orange signs announcing the crossing has been shut off, a thick black arrow pointing out the access to a detour route. It would easily stop a car, not a person, so he breezes by it.  He crosses the bridge right to the very center then finds his shuffling steps drawing to a halt.

Stan approaches one of the railings and looks over it all. Despite the moon, everything is cast in shadow. The trees, the water, the rocks. There is snow and it glows, but the glow is almost muted, eerie. It’s as if the world has been sapped of all life, of all color. There’s a plethora of trees on either side of the water below, tall branches naked and outstretched, asking for something, but god knows what.

Stan reaches into his jacket and finds a beat up packet of cigarettes. He draws one out, lights it, pulling noxious nicotine deep into his body. He holds it for a long time before letting it out, letting it fly from him. _Like breathing fire_ , he thinks, almost says to himself, but there’s no point in saying a damn word aloud. Not to himself and certainly not to anyone else.

He rubs at his eyes and can feel some pressure there, right behind the lids, the right one in particular as he continues to take the occasional drags of his cigarette. Stan wonders how he’d look from a distance. If someone stood in those crops of trees, what would they see? The light orange cherry light of his cigarette? Or maybe a broken bum standing on a bridge with not enough damn support or street lights or much of anything of any worth. He runs a hand through his hair and frowns. His hair has gotten so long. Long and greasy and when was the last time he had had a nice shower?

The fact he can’t remember is discouraging. Ha. _Discouraging_. Ain’t that a fancy word for how much of a fuck up he is, his _life_ is. He’s in his early twenties and his life is – what _is_ it, exactly? Nothing but a broken collection of pieces. Shards of glassy memories that don’t equal up to a whole lot. He licks hip lips and finishes his cigarette off, flicking it between two fingers over the edge of the railing and he watches with some fascination as it twirls and spins, disappearing into the rushing waters below.

He looks down at the water. It is far, far below him. How many feet down is it exactly? And what kind of water is it? A river? A lake? He’s never had much of a head for that sort of thing and frankly, he doesn’t even know where the fuck he is. Nowadays he just gets in his car and drives. And drives and drives and the sign posts don’t mean a goddamn thing to him because he has nowhere to go.

 There are no expectations on him, no one waiting for him. He can do whatever he wants whenever he wants. He can go anywhere and do anything. In theory. But not reality. He’s tied down by lack of funds, lack of motivation, lack of… _Christ_. He rubs at his eyes again and looks at the water and suddenly he’s just – he’s so goddamn _tired_. And _cold_. And _alone_.

And it’s weighing on him heavier than it ever has. Normally he’s so…blissfully numb. But tonight he’s on this weird razor’s edge of numb and…he doesn’t know. Something else. Something primal and full of despair, of rancor. He’s just…he’s done. And the moment he thinks it, the moment he just – he almost feels _better_.

Stanley Pines is _done_.

He’s done driving, he’s done being broke, he’s done being homeless, he’s done being alone and living and breathing and just… _done_.

The world is so silent now. Peaceful. The moon hangs heavy in the sky and the black water below is _gorgeous_. It ripples and churns, alive with its endless currents and he doesn’t know when he stepped over the railing and towards the edge, but he’s there now just…looking down at it. It’s beautiful. He wants to embrace it, wants to lose himself in it and he feels his arms rise up and he’s never felt so…free. So sure.

 _Go down, go down, go down_ , a tempting whisper chants in the back of his mind as one foot rises, hangs over the abyss. His body bends just that little bit forward…

…only to snap back. Hard.

He chokes, a strong grip on the back of his jacket tugging him backwards bodily. He lurches back towards the safety of the full bridge so hard that the railing smacks roughly into his ass and the back of his legs. And still the force that’s grabbed him isn’t done. It roughly tugs him up and over the railing and the next thing he knows he’s a heap on the bridge, palms scrapped as they fall out to catch him.

Stan sputters as everything around him seems to explode. The sounds return, the colors, and he’s very much alive as the person who grabbed him thunders, “Stanley, what on earth did you think you were doing!”

Stan flinches, at a loss for words, as his eyes cast up to see a shadowy man standing over him. The bad lighting of the night makes it hard for him to make the guy’s features out, but he recognizes he’s wearing a trench coat and sweater, that he has a pair of glasses that glint in the moonlight as he puts his hands on his hips and snarls, “Well?”

And Stanley doesn’t know who this is, but he doesn’t give a shit, suddenly a hot fire burning up within him as he snaps, “What I was doing was none of your goddamn _business_ , you-!”

But he doesn’t get to say more. The guy reaches down and yanks him to his feet and shakes him and shakes him and Stan struggles, so furious he can’t see straight, “Hey! Let go’a me, you son of-!”

But then, suddenly and completely out of nowhere, the guys tugs him close. He fucking _hugs_ him. He hugs him so tight Stan can’t breathe, ribs crying out as this stranger holds him close. He feels the rough brush of stubble against the left side of his face, the stranger rubbing their cheeks together before his lips move upwards, hot breath caressing the shell of Stan’s ear as his voice comes out in a harsh choke, “How could you even-? How could you ever-? Oh, _Stanley_ …”

And he says it as if his hearts breaking and Stan feels his eyes stupidly heat. Like he’s going to _cry_. Fuck, he doesn’t even know who this _is_. There’s no rational reason why he should cry or – or feel _guilty_. Which he does.

He feels guilty and he has no idea why. He suddenly wants to sob, ask this guy why he stopped him, but instead he goes sort of slack, the fight dropping out of him and that seems to be the right move, because the guy loosens his death grip, looking into his face, tipping it up and he knows he’s looking into Stan’s eyes even if it’s hard as hell to see in this pitch, “Stanley…”

“Do…do I know you?” Stan whispers, voice croaking more than he’d like. The guy lets out the world’s most bitter laugh as he shrugs, “In a way.”

“You know my name…”

“Yeah.”

“Who-?” Stan starts but the guy just shakes his head, “I’m nobody, Stanley.”

Nobody…

Stan frowns, eyebrows knitting together. Why does that sound so familiar? He feels like he’s heard that before and, even though he can’t make out this guy’s features, he suddenly seems familiar too. His voice, his smell – and yes, Stan smelled him, how could he not when they were damn near smashed together at one point? That scent…acrid chemicals underlined with something sweet, something brightly citrusy that makes him think of…

His face scrunches up and he feels perilously close to tears again. Fuck. _Sixer_. He hasn’t thought of Sixer in…okay, no, he shouldn’t lie to himself. He’s always thinking of his brother. His twin is always in the back of his mind. Not a day goes by where he _doesn’t_ think of Ford.

But just then – when he’d been on that other side of the bridge, when he’d been over the railing and his foot had been hanging in empty, dead space…he hadn’t been thinking of him. Not at all.

And that’s just…it’s the _worst_. The last thing Stan wants to think of (hell, if possible, to _see_ ) when he dies is Stanford. Him and just him. No one else. And here’s this guy’s swooping in and saving him and smelling like the person he misses the most and he finds himself reverting back to anger as he grumbles, “Whatever. Look, if you’re thinkin’ I’m gonna thank you-!”

“You should,” the guy returns curtly and with such – such _superiority_ that Stan’s tempted to sock him one, but instead he hisses, “ _Stop_ interruptin’ me, alright?! Maybe I know you and maybe I don’t, but it’s clear you know me and if – if this is about money…”

“It’s not.”

“What did I say about interruptin’ me!”

The guy holds up his hands in surrender, but Stan gets the impression that this ‘nobody’ is far from complacent. If anything, he probably views Stan as some kid who just has to have his little tantrum before he’s going to be reasonable. Which just sets his teeth on edge, tone heated as he continues, “Anyway, I don’t know why you did what you did and I don’t care. I...I got places to be, so…”

Stan makes a show of shoving past him, making sure to knock his shoulder into Nobody’s as he rudely pushes on, hands diving deep into his pockets as he mentally scolds himself for looking so weak and stupid. He told Nobody not to interrupt and then didn’t really have jack to say, so now he’s storming off like he’s some hotshot. Or so he thinks. He gets caught again by his collar, but this time the yank is gentler as Nobody asks quietly, “When’s the last time you ate?”

“What?” Stan whirls around, jaw working, defenses up, but the guy just shrugs again, “I’m starved. You can join me. If you like.”

He adds the last like an afterthought before he starts walking and Stan…Stan just stands there, gaping and unaware he _is_ gaping until he snaps his mouth shut. Nobody walks just a little bit farther, ending right under a street light, finally illuminating himself. He is wearing a trench coat and his own hands are buried in it. He has a bright red turtleneck sweater, form fitting pants, fluffy grey hair and this sort of lopsided smile that makes Stan’s heart thump hard as he asks innocently, “Coming?”

Stan blinks rapidly then nods, jogging a bit to catch up.

 

+

Ford promised himself he wouldn’t go back again.

He _promised_.

But if there’s one thing Stanford Pines is good at – it’s breaking promises.

He’s broken so many he’s lost track and he just…he can’t _help_ himself. The thrill of time travel is almost more than he can handle and he knows he should use it for something more than this. There are so many great moments in history – scientific discoveries he’d marvel at seeing in their earliest stages. Famous philosophers, inventors, captains of industry – if he wants, he can meet them, speak with them even though they are now long dead.

There are many things Ford could do and he’s chosen to do this yet again. But this time, he doesn’t go back to the last time he saw Stanley. He doesn’t go to a few mere days after his brother’s exile, but instead years later. He just…he had to see. It couldn’t be that bad, could it? Stan said he was just waiting for his big break, that he’d been a salesman, that…

What did it _matter_ what he said? The story he’d spun the children and a newly returned Ford had been just that. Just a story. A pack of lies. Which makes perfect sense, because if there’s one thing Stanley Pines is good at – it’s lies. Whether through omission or bald-faced, Stan’s a liar and Ford’s a breaker of promises and boy, aren’t they a pair?

But Stanley…his sins seem minimal in comparison. Especially now, especially after…

Ford still can’t believe it…what Stan had been about to do. He’d tuned the chronomatic circuits on the time machine to lock in on Stan specifically, so when he’d been shunted from the present to the past he’d be close. It’s how he’d found him the first time and it’s how he found him this time. The time machine deposited him just on the edge of some body of water. He’d been glad for his boots, the thick soles protecting him from the blanket of snow that hugged close to the bank.

He’d looked around the dark forest with a frown, uncertain where his brother was when he’d seen the bridge in the distance. The streetlights around offered a soft orange glow, but not much else. Ford had had to squint to make out someone walking along its length. Sure that the person walking was Stan, Ford had made his move, marching up through the brush to reach the bridge.

He hadn’t planned on interfering this time. Honestly. Ford had only planned to observe, albeit with little success considering how dark the night was. But he’d been able to see enough. To see his brother smoking (a fact that made his upper lip curl in disgust. _Really, Stanley_? He’d thought, _Smoking_? _You know better_!) and to see him looking…defeated. It was the way he carried himself, shoulders slumped and it’d made Ford’s throat clench with emotion.

More so when Stan just, oh so casually, climbed over the railing of the bridge. Ford had never known such fear. Never. Not when he’d been sucked through the portal, not when he’d faced terrors on the other side of it, not even when he’d battled Bill – nothing had elicited such pure, unadulterated fear as the sight of Stan on that side of the bridge, one foot just hanging out.

Ford didn’t think, he was propelled by instinct as he darted forward and caught Stan by the scruff of his neck, tugging him back from danger, back from the edge and god, his heart still stings with it. Stan…so very close to…to…

Stanley. His brother. His…god, his _hero_. The one he’s stupidly, head-over-heels-in-love-with just a hare's breath away from taking his own life and Ford still can’t fathom it. Stan’s always been so strong. So confident. So-so _happy_. To think he could sink so low…

Ford had had no choice but to save him and now…he’s not sure if he’s changed anything. If he’s altered some monumental course in the tide of history, but honestly? He doesn’t care. He’s more than fine with sacrificing the sanctity of time and space if it means sparing the life of the person he loves most. So, if he’s caused some cosmic fuck up with this move, he’ll accept the consequences. Unlike the whole fiasco with Bill, this time he’ll own up to his mistakes.

Although he’ll be damned if he’ll call _that_ a mistake. Saving Stanley had to be done. He’d do it all over again in a heartbeat. But this? What he’s doing right now? Yes, it’s…well, it’s something else altogether. He hears a young Stan walking behind him and god, Ford wants to turn around. He wants to check on him, hold him close again, he wants to confess all his sins, but he doesn’t do that.

Instead he keeps walking and he’s not sure where they are. His hands are deep in his voluminous trench coat and he wiggles his fingers around in the pockets. He pushes past the time travel device, feeling out for another one of his inventions. Once he’s sure he has got a good grip on it, he pulls it out and fiddles with it.

It’s something of an area scanner – a primitive cell phone in a time with no such devices. It ticks out and marks locations after Ford inputs a few key phrases, pulling up the names and directions for a few nearby eateries. Thankfully they’re within walking distance, despite the area around them looking damn near abandoned. But sometimes that’s how small towns work, just turn the right corner and boom! Civilization.

Soon enough a bevy of lights dance into Ford’s vision and he walks with determination towards a small Mom and Pop diner. The bell over the door jingles as he opens it and he finally turns, finally looks at Stan and realizes he’s been holding his breath, worried that he might not be there. But Stan _is_ there and now that he can see him clearly, Ford’s heart breaks all over again.

Stan looks _dreadful_. Both of his eyes are blackened, his nose broken, and his clothes dirty. True, his wounds _are_ healing (saying his nose is broken isn’t _entirely_ accurate) but still – he looks as if he’s been in a terrible accident or faced unbelievable violence or both. He’s light years from how Ford last saw him. Well, okay, yes - the _last_ time Ford saw Stanley, he was his much older self. He didn’t just bounce from young, teenage Stan to this twentysomething version.

In present day, Ford and Stan are sharing the Stan ‘O War II, still traveling the globe, but Ford made this time travel device and couldn’t wait to use it and that’s how he ended up in this situation in the first place. He’s been surrounded with this old, grizzled version of his brother and he just…he wanted to know how Stan ended up the way he did.

Hence the time traveling. First to his teenage years to now and now…Jesus, Stan in his _twenties_. His hair is long. He’s still trying to do the greaser thing, slicking it back as best as he can, but several longer pieces hang past his eyes, sticky strands clinging to his cheekbones, giving him something of a rakish appearance and he’s…filled out. Ford feels like a dirty old man for noticing it, but, well…he has.

Stan is much more muscular – shoulders broad, stomach flat, and legs - long, powerful, thick thighs – fuck, Ford _is_ a dirty old man. He shakes his head to himself, disgusted with his blatant appraisal of Stanley as he slides into an empty booth. He has no idea if he’s supposed to wait for a waitress to seat them, but he could care less. He wants to sit and Stan _needs_ to sit.

They’re not even fully settled when a waitress does appear. She has a cute little blue outfit and white apron on, menus in hand as she offers a bright red lipstick smile, “Hiya! I’m Melissa and I’ll be taking your orders. Y’all want anything to drink?”

“Just water,” Stan mumbles and Ford frowns, wanting to push him to ask for more, but knowing he should pick his battles. This in mind, he gives her a short, “Coffee. Black.”

She nods and walks off as they sit there awkwardly. Ford slides the menu easily towards himself and flicks through it quickly. It doesn’t take him long to pick out what he wants and he tosses it back up on the table between them, full attention directing squarely back on Stanley, “And what will you be having?”

“Water.”

“Stanley…” Ford starts in a lightly chiding tone and Stan crosses his arms, shooting him a mutinous look, “Look, I toldja – if this is about money, I don’t-”

“It’s not,” Ford cuts in firmly, “I’ll foot the bill. Pick anything you’d like.”

This doesn’t even faze Stan, his earlier morose attitude transforming into something surlier, “I don’t take handouts.”

Ford barely avoids rolling his eyes. Barely. Stanley’s as stubborn in the past as he is in the future. Not that Ford doesn’t share the trait with him, but damned if it isn’t irritating. He sighs and shifts in the booth, “It’s not a handout. It’s a gesture of friendship.”

“We’re friends?” Stan huffs incredulously and Ford’s chin dips, “I’d like to think so. Especially after…after what just happened,” he swallows thickly, throat clicking loudly, “Or didn’t.”

“So what? Some act of ‘charity’ on your part makes us all buddy-buddy now?” his brother lashes out and Ford doesn’t shrink from it. If anything his jaw ticks, ire finally up, “It wasn’t an act of charity, it was an act of _sense_ – now order something!”

“It wasn’t any of your business if I wanted ta-!” Stan’s voice starts to rise but dies off immediately as their waitress returns. If she has any opinion on their growing argument, she has the sense not to show it, instead drawing out her ordering pad and asking dryly, “You boys ready to eat?”

Stan snatches up his menu loudly and glares at it while Ford turns his attention to her with a bland smile, “Yes, I’d like the blueberry pancakes and eggs over easy with a side of toast. Wheat, if possible.”

“Of course,” she returns, her pen wiggling like mad as she turns to Stan, “And you?”

“You really gonna pay?” Stan asks with raised eyebrows and Ford knows he’s planning something devious even as he nods. Stan’s eyes gleam as he grins evilly, “Then yer gonna _pay_.”

Stan sets about ordering enough to feed a family of six. If he’s expecting Ford to balk, he’s sadly mistaken. The exchange rate from the future to the past is such, that if Ford brought his current lump sum in the bank to this time period, he’d be setting pretty. As such, he has more than enough in cash to satisfy Stan’s appetite ten times over. Hell, Stan could ask him for a house and a car and Ford could easily afford both in this time period.

Not that he’s going to go that far. Ford has made a big change in the course of historical events, but he knows better than to change that much. Although his head is still spinning whenever he thinks of Stan’s near actions. If Ford hadn’t arrived – what would have happened? Would Stan have plunged to his death? Would he have stepped back? Would someone else have magically materialized to save him? Did Ford’s first foray into the past, no matter how small, cause an unprecedented change that led to what almost happened tonight?

So many questions and so few answers. Normally he’d be ecstatic to study it, but right now he’s much more concerned with Stanley and his welfare as his twin holds out the menu and winks at the waitress, “…and your number, if you’re feeling feisty.”

“Hmm, think I’ll pass,” she returns, but good naturedly, as she turns to Ford and gestures to his menu, “But I’ll get y’alls orders up in two shakes.”

Ford hands her the menu and she takes it, but not before her eyes widen. Just a fraction. Just long enough for Ford to know she’s seen his hands and as she saunters off. No reaction to Stan’s wounds – but his extra fingers? Of course _that_ gets noticed. And not just by her, as he turns to see that Stan noticed as well. Stan looks as if he’s seen a ghost, a haunted expression on his face. One that shifts to blinding anger as he seethes, “ _Who are you_?”

Ford opens his mouth to answer, but doesn’t even get a chance before Stan cries, “And don’t say ‘Nobody’! No nobody has hands like that! My brother has hands like that and I know you ain’t him, ‘cause he’s not a billion years old!”

“Well, I’d say a ‘billion’ is a little much,” Ford sniffs, scratching at his cheek and thinking his hair isn’t all _that_ grey when Stan slams his palms down loudly on the table between them, “ _Answer_ the question or I’m gone!”

“Alright, alright, calm down! Just…” Ford gestures at him to take it down a notch and Stan does, although he does appear as if he’s seconds from bolting. Ford breathes in deep and tries to think of the best way to answer, “Stanley, when I say I’m nobody, that’s because…well, because I think that’s the best way you should think of me. If you should think of me at all. I’m…I’m only passing through. I’m only here to offer you some…some help. Some guidance. In fact, why not think of me as your guardian angel.”

“My guardian angel?” Stan scoffs, “Yeah right! It’s been a long time since I been ta synagogue, but even when I did go, angels were low on my believin’ list. ‘Sides, if you’re my guardian angel, why didn’t you show up when I needed you most?”

“You mean when you broke the science fair project?” Ford offers and Stan’s anger drops away again, this time to give way to sheer shock. Normally, Ford would enjoy seeing this look on his twin’s face, but not now. Not when Stan’s hit upon the main crux of Ford’s own troubled mind.

It was the first thing that came to Ford when the time travel device was complete. Why not go back and fix his science project? Why not prevent its destruction and thus change the entire tide of his own history? But he knows why and he says as much to Stanley now, “I…I think some things _have_ to happen. There are some moments in time that just have to take place. They’re too big, too important to alter, because they lead us to our future, whether for good or ill.”

Stan just shakes his head and doesn’t reply. Instead he crosses his arms and casts his eyes outside the window next to them. Ford honestly didn’t even notice their booth was next to a window until Stan looked out and now he finds himself doing the same as his brother.

The red neon of the diner’s outside sign casts a warm glow on the nearby piles of snow and a few old fashioned (or, he supposes in this time period, new fashioned) cars drive by and the sky is still inky black. Ford looks at his watch. It’s a little after three in the morning and he feels his lips quirk. It’s always amused him. How the ‘morning’ can be so, so dark and that’s when Stan finally speaks, voice husky, “Don’t imagine its led me anywhere good.”

Ford looks at him questioningly but Stan doesn’t face him, eyes still casting out the window, “That moment. It did change everything. And not for the better. My stunt at the bridge is proof of that.”

“Stanley…”

Stan finally does look at him and he just shrugs, looking so impossibly _young_ , “I wouldn’t’ve gone through with it, you know? Not…not really.”

The lump in Ford’s throat hurts and Stan’s lips just sort of dance about his face, as if he’s fighting off a smile, albeit not a happy one, “Just a whim.”

He plays with the straw in his glass of water before he leans back in the booth, the cushy material making noises as it grinds against the material of his jacket. He reaches into one of his pockets and withdraws his pack of cigarettes. He pops one into his mouth and lights it and Ford’s sure his face is livid. This seems to amuse Stan, who smirks as he blows out a stream of smoke, “Take it angels aren’t fans of cigarettes?”

“ _I’m_ not.”

“Too bad, ‘cause this ashtray right here is begging ta be filled,” Stan says as he draws over the little plastic disc from one side of the table. If there’s one thing Ford appreciates about his own time, it’s how society’s come to crack down on smoking in public places. Unfortunately, he’s not in his own time and can only shoot Stan a baleful glance.

Stan seems unmoved by it as he continues to smoke, “So, angel, what else you know about me?”

“A great deal,” is Ford’s answer even as he thinks, _not enough_. He wants to know when Stan took up smoking and why, although he highly doubts he’ll understand the why of it. Smoking was never an activity he wanted to engage in, even when it was a popular pastime. Still, wanting to prove his point, he huffs, “One could say I’ve been with you since birth.”

“That why you look like him?” Stan doesn’t meet Ford’s eyes, instead rolling the tip of his cigarette along the ashtray before stubbing it out, his voice quiet, “I…I noticed you…you look like him. But older. Much older.”

 _A billion years older_? Ford is tempted to joke, but instead he licks his lips and wonders if he shouldn’t just confess. Just tell Stanley who exactly he is. But Stan isn’t done, “Guess it makes sense – why not take on the look of somebody who means so much to me? And being a ‘guardian’, well, you’d have to be a lot older wouldn’t you? With age comes wisdom or some bullshit.”

“Stanley…”

“Not saying I believe it,” Stan cuts in tersely, finally meeting Ford’s eyes, “The angel crap. But, mean, if it _is_ true…”

He doesn’t get to say more because their food arrives. ALL of their food. Which means it takes more than just their waitress to bring it out. Heaping plates are laid out before Stan. Bacon, sausage, scrambled eggs, waffles, grits, biscuits and gravy. An endless smorgasbord of breakfast offerings fill the booth’s little table and while Ford neatly tucks into his pancakes, Stan only pokes at his offerings.

But Ford can see it. The barely restrained hunger in his twin’s face. God only knows the last time he had a full, decent meal and he’s doing his best to be coy about it. He takes little bird bites, trying his best not show how famished he is and Ford stops eating to give him a pointed look, “Stanley?”

Stan hums in acknowledgement and Ford points at the plate closest to Stan with his fork, tone imperious, “Eat.”

For a moment Ford’s sure Stan will defy him just to do it but instead, much to his pleasure, Stan finally gives in, taking a bigger forkful. Followed by another and another. Soon enough it’s clear he’s giving up all pretense of acting like he hasn’t eaten in a long time. He begins devouring the food like someone might take it away at a moment’s notice, his hands better utensils than the ones offered.

Ford does his best not to watch, does his best not show how much his brother’s misfortunes are torturing him. Stan would view it as pity and it’s not pity so much as regret. Regret for the fact that Stan had had to go through this. That he’d been pushed to this point of hunger and considered suicide. Ford can’t help but feel the weight of it on his shoulders. Jesus, what had he been doing at this time? Bitching about his mostly bug free dorm? At least he had _had_ a place to sleep! At least he had had access to food and other basic human necessities.

Eventually Stan slows, but only just. He sees that Ford is through most of his pancakes and that he’s started working on his eggs, “God, you can’t just look like Sixer, can you? You gotta eat like him too?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The snot eggs,” Stan mumbles through a mouthful, “Sixer likes ‘em like that too. Always thought it was gross.”

“It’s a perfectly acceptable way to eat eggs,” Ford argues and Stan sighs, unable to keep a smile from his face, “You sound like him too.”

Ford knows he shouldn’t ask the question. He knows it, he knows it, he…

“Is-is that a bad thing?”

Silence settles between them and Ford tries not to fidget as he waits for the answer.

If there is one.

Finally he gets a very soft, “No.”

And then an even softer, “No. I…I kinda like it.”

The flush of warmth that shoots through Ford is probably wildly inappropriate. Probably. But then Stan looks up at him with this smile and says, “I miss him.”

 _I miss you too_ , Ford almost replies, which is ridiculous. He’s seen Stanley plenty in his time. But this is different. Stanley now is so…it’s still so _hard_. Even living together on the Stan ‘O War II, there’s this…barrier. They’re friendly, close even – closer than they’ve been in a long time. But the stretch of years between them occasionally rears its ugly head. Reminds them that they’re practically strangers.

And Stan’s damaged memories don’t help. Ford had had no choice _but_ to use the memory erasing gun on Stan. Hell, his twin had practically begged him to do it. It had been the only way to defeat Bill, to save the kids. But doing so…it had had its costs. And while Stan has his memories back, he only has back but a portion.

There are gaps. They never talk about it. But Ford knows they’re there. Sometimes Stan will be on the deck of the ship and he just…he stares off into the distance and it’s like…like he isn’t even there. He isn’t _anywhere_. And Ford worries about it. He worries and he wants to do some research and study and _help_ but he can’t – he can’t ask him. He can’t ask Stanley, because every time he tries, his throat closes up and he can’t think of what to say, what to do.

The divide between them just…it feels too big. Never mind the fact that they live together now. It’s just…there. This dead space that Ford is too scared to breach and yes, he knows it makes him a coward, but what’s the shock there? Stanley is the hero. Not him. He’s the hero’s brother and he’s okay with that and, as such, he just – he can’t take the leap.

But, apparently, he can travel into the past and meddle and fuck - he needs to stop this, doesn’t he? He ruffles a hand through his hair and thinks of what to do next when Stan beats him to the punch, “Can…can I ask ya something?”

Ford looks up and Stan’s eyes shift away. He rubs at one of his arms and looks nervous, “You…you can say ‘no’ if you want.”

Ford waits and his patience is rewarded. Stan looks at him, brown eyes cautious; “Can I hold your hand?”

The only sound Ford hears is his inhale of breath. The question, the moment, it hangs between them. Just as fragile and precarious as the moment on the bridge. Ford doesn’t know if his face says anything – if his mouth does. Not that it much matters, the moment being broken by the inevitabilities that are reality. The waitress has returned and she’s asking if she can take their plates, if they need anything boxed up and Ford answers numbly, blindly – telling her that he’s quite finished and to make sure to package up Stan’s leftovers – but it’s all on autopilot.

All he can think about, all he can focus on. Is that question. On those earnest brown eyes.

 _Can I hold your hand_?

And the moment the waitress is gone and all the food is gone and there’s nothing between them but blank table, Stan mutters, “Never mind. It’s-it’s stupid.”

“No,” Ford replies gently, then more firmly, “No. It’s not stupid, Stanley.”

And he puts his hand out on the table. Left arm laid out, palm up, reaching for Stan across the table. Stan looks at his hand, _stares_ at it. Slowly Stan’s hand rises up and Ford can see it’s trembling as it floats above his own. It hovers, not quite touching, and Ford can feel the heat of his skin, can feel how close it is and he wonders if he shouldn’t just make the contact, but no – no, this is for Stanley to do.

Stan makes a sound deep in the center of him, something suspiciously like a sob, as he closes the gap, as he places his hand over Ford’s. Their palms meet, naked and warm, and Stan strokes at the delicate skin of Ford’s wrist, the lines of his hands, his fingers, and now he curses under his breath, shaking his head, eyes shut tight, eye lids working.

Ford can’t stop looking at him, fascinated by the play of emotions on his brother’s face. He wonders what Stan is thinking and if he himself is having an outward reaction because inside? Inside he’s fireworks. The feeling of Stan touching him, of their hands meeting so simply and yet so powerfully. It’s almost more than he can take.

Stan’s strokes Ford’s extra finger and finally opens his eyes as he lets out a watery laugh, “The extras…they’ve always been my favorite.”

“Have they?” Ford breathes, lost.

He nods, “Know Sixer always hated ‘em. Bane of his existence, but…I love ‘em. Always have. Makes me feel…safe. Touching them. Makes me feel like…like when I was a kid, y’know? A really little, little kid – like, so young you just don’t really know anything yet. Your memories are just forming, you’re just learning and you have no idea what the world is like – what _people_ are like. You got no idea what’s in store for you. You’re safe and protected and loved and…”

He reaches out with his other hand, cups Ford’s hand in both of his, squeezing lightly, “We were like one person. Once upon a time. Just him and me against the world. I…I always thought I’d have his hand to hold.”

Ford’s eyes are hot and now _he’s_ trembling as Stan brings his hand up and kisses it. He kisses the very center of the back of Ford’s hand, then each knuckle, each finger, before finally just pressing it to his lips, breathing on it, head bowed like he’s praying over it. Stan’s eyes are shiny, wet with unshed tears and he laughs again, “Sorry, but…but can I-?”

Ford has no idea what he’s asking for, but he nods immediately. Stan can have whatever he wants. Anything he wants. Ford will give it to him, no questions asked. Stan tenderly opens Ford’s hand and presses the palm against his cheek. Ford takes the cue effortlessly. He cups one side of Stan’s face in his hand and Stan leans into, leans into the touch.

They stay like that, crystallized in that perfect moment, for what seems an eternity.

But eventually Stan clears his throat and sits up, drawing back to rub at his nose and eyes conspicuously. Ford too, does his best to discreetly wipe Stan’s tears from his fingers. Same for reaching beneath his own glasses and wiping at his own eyes. The food comes, boxed and bagged and ready to go and Ford knows it’s over. All of this.

He pays and tips and Stan looks rather impressed at the amount of bills he manages to produce. They leave the diner and once outside Ford looks at Stan with some trepidation, “Where are you off to now?”

“Eh, like I told you earlier. I gotta places to be. Don’t worry about it.”

“You mean your car,” Ford returns archly and Stan does another double take. Ford pushes past it, “Stanley, you should see about sleeping in a proper bed tonight. Here…”

Ford unfurls some money and holds it out to him, “I know you ‘don’t take handouts’ but it’s the least I can do. Get yourself a hotel room. A _hotel_ room, you understand? _Not_ a motel room. Get some proper rest, a shower – maybe a haircut…”

Stan looks like he wants to argue but he’s also eyeing the money like it’s the most precious and exciting thing he’s ever seen. Finally he takes it, shoving it into his jacket’s pocket as he grouses, “You’re awful pushy for an angel, aren’t you?”

Ford rolls his eyes, “I told you to _think_ of me as a guardian angel. Not that I _am_ one.”

“Yeah, okay, well – that’s better than thinkin’ you’re my stalker, right? Seein’ as you know about my car and the project.”

Ford can’t refute that point as Stan reaches for a cigarette, the flint on his lighter sparking. Ford draws the cigarette from his lips and snaps it neatly in half, tossing it aside, “And no more of that, please.”

“Oh, well – since you said ‘please’,” Stan grumbles with as much sarcasm as humanly possible. The light from the diner bounces off of Stan’s skin and Ford sighs deeply, reaching into his pocket, because he figures ‘in for a penny in for a pound’, “Come here.”

“Why should-?” Stan starts but Ford cuts in with a sharp, ‘Just-!’, as he takes ahold of his brother’s face and runs his healer over it. Much like he did back at Mulroney’s, the instrument heals the cuts on Stan’s face and nose. His bruises accelerate in color until they’re fully healed and then he clicks it off, asking gently, “Better?”

Stan rubs at his face and then just breathes out, “Holy shit.”

Ford can’t keep the disapproval out of his voice, “How did you even end up like that, Stanley?”

“Bar fight. It was…wait, shouldn’t you know?”

“I don’t know _everything_ , Stanley.”

“Yeah,” Stan huffs, “Says the guy who just _healed_ my face. Maybe I should rethink the whole angel thing. You’re the kinda guy who sends a boy to church.”

“So, you’re saying you’re just a boy?” Ford teases and Stan scowls at him, “Yeah, compared to your old man ass, I’m like, a _child_.”

“Hmm, good comeback.”

“Shut up,” Stan says but he’s laughing and Ford’s grinning and it’s…nice. Very nice. Probably too nice and Ford sighs, shaking his head, “I should go.”

“Oh,” Stan can’t keep the sadness out of his voice, “Yeah. Sure. Makes sense. Got places to be, right? Up there with the rest of the heavenly host.”

“I told you, I’m not actually-!”

“Yeah, yeah – I got it. You’re ‘Nobody’,” Stan air quotes the name, still smirking, “But I guess, mean, what with the full meal, bed for the night and fixed face you ARE also my guardian angel.”

“Your guardian at least.”

“Guardian, huh?” Stan eyes him warily, “Don’t know how much I like that.”

“Are you saying you don’t need guarding?”

“Damn straight!”

Ford just hums, but his disagreement with that statement is obvious. Stan shifts from foot to foot and Ford is sure he hates how his voice sounds when he asks, “So…when am I gonna see you again?”

That _is_ the question, isn’t it? Ford scratches at the back of his head, feeling wildly uncomfortable and unhappy, “I’m…I’m not sure.”

Stan doesn’t answer, but Ford can sense his disappointment. He puts a hand on one of his shoulders and squeezes, “I can’t promise you anything, Stan, but…but…hopefully soon.”

“Soon?” Stan asks with so much hope in his face and Ford feels like a heel and he knows he shouldn’t. He _will_ be seeing Stan soon. Very soon, as a matter of fact. He’ll be back in his own time and Stan will be right there. But he also won’t be. Not like this. Ford squeezes Stan’s shoulder again as an answer and gives him a grin, “See you soon, Stanley.”

“Yeah…” Stan says to Ford’s retreating back, “See you.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags updated - MAJOR warning for attempted rape. May have trigger elements for some. VERY hard for me myself to write, so, y'know - watch out for yourself!

The moment Ford is back in the present, he checks to see if anything has changed.

It hasn’t.

Granted, he’s adjusted the time traveling device to return him almost as quickly as he leaves. So, while he was in the past for hours, he can always come back to the now as if it’s been only a few minutes. But still, he stopped something that could have had monumental consequences. He expected _some_ kind of change. Some sort of fall out. But no, he arrives back below the decks of the Stan ‘O War II to see that the clock has only shifted five minutes since his departure and not a thing around him looks different.

All his inventions, sea charts, knickknacks – everything is as he left it. His mind immediately goes to Stanley, so he charges up to the upper deck but there’s Stan. Just as he left him. They’re off the coast of some town in Maine and Stan is fishing. But in a bored, abstract way. He’s not really paying any attention to his line, eyes instead cast off towards the distance.

It’s around seven in the morning and the ocean waters are a choppy, gunmetal grey. The sky is no better in hue. It’s foggy and dim and the only thing with any color whatsoever is the land, which appears to be nothing but rows upon rows of dark, dark forest greens. Ford clears his throat but Stan doesn’t turn. He just toys with his reel, the clicking sounds echoing.

Ford tries again and Stan finally turns. His face is growing a rather thick beard and he’s got his red beanie clamped down hard over his growing hair. Ford notices absently that the longer strands are just above his eyes, some sticking to his cheeks…just like his twentysomething-self had had, albeit nowhere near that shade of white.

And, unlike his younger self, Stan’s brown eyes are…unfocused. He blinks a few times and Ford gets the impression Stan…doesn’t know who he is. He looks so lost and Ford’s gripped with a wild anxiety as he says, “Stan, it’s me. Ford.”

Stan blinks again, then snorts, turning back to his line, “Yeah, I know who you are, Sixer. Geez, no need to announce yerself.”

Ford’s anxiety dims some, but he’s not entirely sure Stanley wasn’t lying just now. He’s seen this happen too many times _not_ to question it. And with his actions in the past on top of that, he can’t help but question it more than ever. God, he has to stop using the device! It’s going to cause nothing but trouble.

He walks over towards Stan, hands in his pockets, watching as his twin fishes.

It’s quiet.

It’s _always_ quiet.

When they had first sailed off, it’d been nothing but talking, laughing. They’d been sailing high on the endorphins of defeating Bill, of ending a glorious summer with their grand niece and nephew, of finding one another again. But it had quickly given way to awkwardness and an underlying sort of bitterness, mostly from Stan’s side and Ford can’t blame him for it.

Ford isn’t foolish enough to think that he deserves Stan’s forgiveness so quickly. Especially now that he’s had glimpses into his past. Ford was a fool and he should pay for it. He should. But…Stan won’t talk about it. And Ford’s too scared to broach it. So. Quiet. Awful, awful quiet.

And the time traveling, of which Stan knows nothing.

But what is Ford to do? How is he supposed to learn about him, about what happened while he was gone? Ford’s learned that evasiveness has its costs; withholding trust has its costs, so he’s trying to learn from that. Meanwhile, Stan seems to have learned the exact opposite.

Stan won’t talk to him about anything important and Ford’s told Stan things. So many things. He’s told Stan all about the dimensions he saw, the creatures he learned about, the sciences he discovered. And Stan listens with half an ear, sort of interested, but when Ford gently, oh so gently, asks Stan about his own past, Stan just grunts and tells him he already knows all he needs to know about it.

Which maybe, just maybe, Ford would be fine with, if it wasn’t for the fact that he senses Stan’s unease with his past. And he’s not sure if it’s because he’s remembering it and it’s too painful or if it’s because he _can’t_ remember it and _that’s_ too painful. Neither option is good. Ford supposes there’s a third option – a mix of the first two, but, again – not good.

There were bound to be side effects from using the memory gun the way they did. He had had it on full blast for Christ’s sake. It was supposed to completely scrub Stan’s mind, wash out Bill entirely, burn him away into nothingness and all at the cost of Stan’s own mind, his own memories.

Ford remembers being trapped with him, the kids being chased by the demon he had summoned into being, and Stan just pleading with him to use the gun. Stan had come up with the idea of the switch. Of course he had. No one, man or demon, could outcon a con man like his twin. Stan came up with the switch and the idea of using the gun and Ford had vehemently opposed it.

But Stan had been firm and in the end there hadn’t been enough time to do much else. It was their one shot, so they took it. Or better to say – Stan took it. He sacrificed himself – his mind, his memories, his very being – for the sake of his family. Ford had never seen anything nobler, more heroic. It was in that moment, right when he’d been pulling the trigger; that had realized what a fraud he’d been. What a horrible person.

Yes, he’d helped others in a variety of dimensions – but had _he_ been as selfless? Had he been as pure? Stanley was a hero in the truest sense of the word and Ford…Ford could learn from him. He still is learning. Or trying to, at least.

Ford idly drums his fingers on the railing of the boat, looking out into the same distance as Stan. He opens his mouth to say something, then thinks better of it and closes it. He tries again and still nothing. Stan must see it out of the corner of his eye, because he grumps, “Spit it out, Sixer. You’re bitin’ more than these fish are.”

Ford bristles at the description, but can’t deny it, “I was just…trying to think of a topic of conversation.”

“We got something ta converse about?”

“Well…no.”

“Then why spoil the quiet? Ain’t no use in talkin’ if there ain’t nothing to talk about. And if you’re looking for small talk, you can look elsewhere,” Stan clicks the reel some and Ford tries not to wince at the bite in the words.

Okay, so, Stan’s not _wrong_ – but Ford was hoping he’d be a little more personable about it. Funny. Isn’t Ford the unsociable twin? Shouldn’t he be relieved? Agree with Stan? He can always find something to do, some science, some supernatural search…something.

But he doesn’t want to do that. Ford wants to talk to Stan. Even though there’s nothing to talk about. Ford’s never felt this way. Like he wants attention and no; that’s not entirely true. He has wanted attention before – but it was more like he wanted adulation. He wanted it in a selfish and conceited way, in a way that was not at all deserved despite what he believed. This is different. He wants a very specific amount of attention from a very specific person.

He feels like a child looking up to some superstar and he just wants a pat on the head and a wink and a, ‘you’re doing alright, kid’, which is ridiculous, seeing as he’s a senior citizen. But at least then it would be something. Some…some sign. Some sign that Stan sees him, that Stan notices him, that Stan…cares.

 _And how exactly do you want him to care?_ His thoughts whisper darkly, sounding eerily like Bill, _do you want him to care like a sibling? Like a friend? Or like a lover?_

Ford drums at the railing again, starts dragging his teeth lightly along his top lip, then the bottom. When he was a teenager, he noticed Stan – he did. But it was in a more abstract way. He recognized his brother as attractive, but not altogether in a sexual way.

Although frankly, _anything_ made him think of sex then, even when he tried to deny it to himself. So he’d never given it too much thought. It hadn’t been like he was in love with his twin. They were family.

And they still _are_ family. But they’re also… _not_. And it has nothing to do with the silence and everything to do with time. Which is hilarious, time travel device and all. But it _is_ a time based conundrum.

Because Stan and Ford were separated for decades.

So much so that they’re practically strangers now despite the similar faces and shared childhood and with a stranger the possibility of love is, well…

“Look, ah, sorry about that,” Stan says, eyes shifting to and from Ford guiltily, “About being a bit…short. Didn’t get a good sleep last night. You can relax. Stop eating your face.”

“I’m not-!”

“I can damn near hear you chewing on your lips,” Stan chuckles, the sound not unkind, “Remember you doin’ that a lot when we was kids. Always did it when you were upset. And I know I was the one who upset you, ‘cause I came off all abrupt. Shit sleep’ll do that to me. So knock off cannibalizin’ your face and we can talk. Don’t know what about, but mean…I can give it a shot.”

Ford’s fingers stop drumming and he does his very best not to toy with his lips. He laces his hands behind his back and shifts on his feet. Now Stan’s given him the chance to talk and he can’t think of a blasted thing to say! Wonderful! Stan seems amused by this, laughing, “Can’t think of a single thing, can ya?”

“No,” Ford says far too quickly and Stan’s laugh grows. It’s smoky and warm and makes Ford’s face heat. He finally thinks of something, “Have you caught anything?”

Stan tips his head to his left where there’s an empty plastic bucket by his feet, “You see anything in there?”

“No.”

“Answers your question,” Stan says, but he’s grinning and Ford mutters ‘smart ass’ making Stan’s grin grow, “They don’t seem to be biting. Bet you got something that can fix that. Some genius invention.”

“I don’t. But I could make one…” Ford turns thoughtful at the idea and almost misses seeing his brother roll his eyes. Almost. He sighs, “Let me guess – that would ruin the fun?”

“You used ta like fishing too, ya know.”

“I certainly did not!”

Stan’s eyebrows rise, “Oh yeah? Why’d you always go out fishing with me then?”

“This might surprise you, Stanley, but there wasn’t a lot to _do_ in Glass Shard. It was basically fishing, swimming, and digging in the sand.”

“You’re forgetting all the stuff you could do when you got older,” Stan returns wolfishly, grin growing to full blown smile, “Drinkin’, fuckin’ and smokin’.”

Ford fails entirely on turning bright red. Stan sees it and guffaws. Not laughs. _Guffaws_. It’s the best way to describe the explosive sounds of humor leaving him as he practically bends in half, almost dropping his fishing rod, “I forgot what a goddamn prude you can be! Christ!”

Ford looks ready to argue, but Stan wipes at his eyes, “Oh man! The only times I ever left ya alone in high school was when I went to do one of those three things. If not all of them!”

“Who? What?” Ford struggles and Stan just catches his breath, “Carla, man. You remember her.”

Ford does. Vaguely. It was his brother’s first big romance. He wouldn’t shut up about her. It had been vastly annoying, so Ford had done his damndest to ignore it all. He’d obviously done more of an admirable job than he thought. He eyes his brother and realizes yet again that he barely knows this man, “You did all of that with her?”

Stan nods, “Yeah, we punched our V Cards together, drank together, toked together – talking about weed there, Stanford. Just in case you was curious.”

“Yes, I know, Stanley,” Ford returns a little waspishly, “I _did_ go to college.”

“Oh ho, look at you!” Stan teases, “They let you do that at Backupsmore?”

“I did _a lot_ at Backupsmore,” Ford counters; although truthfully his brief experience with marijuana had been about it. He didn’t, quote, ‘punch his V Card’ until he’d been through the portal. And he doesn’t want to think about that first time OR Stan’s first time. _Especially_ Stan’s first time. Or Stan’s _other_ times. And he’s not jealous, not jealous, not at all! He clears his throat, thinking of the Stan he last saw and gently probes, “Did you just smoke weed or-?”

“Nah, I smoked cigarettes. Lots of ‘em. How else do you think my voice got like this?” Stan asks and adjusts the reel. Ford looks out over the water at that, curious to see if his brother finally got a bite, but it seems more like he’s readjusting to another spot as he continues, “Cigars too, although I didn’t get a taste for them until much later. Matter of fact I gave ‘em up a bit before I had the kids for the summer. And seeing as they’re back home and we’re out here…”

“No cigars, Stanley,” Ford says firmly and Stan deflates a little, grumbling, “Fine. Sure thing, Dad.”

Ford grimaces, “Don’t call me that.”

“Why not? You compared me to him,” Stan says simply and then tosses in a flirty, “Or maybe you’d prefer Daddy?”

Ford is once again flushed deep crimson and Stan is once again guffawing. Still, Ford finds himself pretty much on cloud nine. They’re _talking_. At long last they’re having a _conversation_. It’s nice and companionable, so, of course, Ford ruins it, “Why did you sleep badly last night?”

Ford’s not sure why he asked the question, but immediately wishes he could withdraw it as Stan grows pensive. He shifts about and shrugs, “No reason. Bad dreams.”

“About?” It’s an automatic response, Ford swears it, but still hates himself for letting it out as Stan scowls, “Nothing.”

 _Just drop it, Ford_ , his thoughts hiss at him, this time sounding like Stan and god, Ford should listen to his inner Stanley…

…but he’s never been good at that, has he? Whether it’s the Stan is in his head or the one in flesh and blood, Ford just doesn’t _listen_.

“Well, if you want to talk about it…”

“If I wanted to talk about it, I would,” Stan snaps and he starts fiddling with the reel, clicking the line back fast as he talks to it more than Ford, “Look, it was just some dumb dream, alright!?”

Ford says ‘okay’ but Stan doesn’t seem to hear it, still talking to the rod or to Ford or probably to himself as he continues hotly, “Dream – more like a _nightmare_ and I’m too old for that shit and it’s stupid to even call it that, to be honest, because it was more like an honest to god _memory_ , but like I was right back there in _it_ , like I was back in-!”

His hands are shaking. Trembling like leaves in a strong wind and Ford’s helpless. He doesn’t know what to do, to say and his brother looks fragile, breakable, as the line zips up and the hook is empty, clear, as Stan whispers, “It was only my first fucking _time_. Shouldn’ta happened. Not to me. Not to _anybody_.”

Ford wants to ask what. Desperately. Instead he reaches out one hand to touch his brother’s shoulder, to offer comfort. And this is exactly the wrong thing to do. Stan jerks back like Ford’s struck him. The fishing rod clatters loudly to the deck of the boat and Stan looks white as a sheet, eyes glazed as he hisses, “Don’t touch me!”

“Stanley, I-!”

Stan’s eyes focus, become sharp with cognition, face etched with embarrassment as he mumbles under his breath, “Goddamn Rengar. Just gotta…”

He rubs at his face with both hands then sticks them in the pockets of his coat as he charges past Ford, talking rapid fire, “Gonna start up the engine. Bring us to shore. Get something to eat. Maybe breakfast. Always liked breakfast.”

He’s gone before Ford can even begin to respond.

 

+

 

Stan’s just _gone_. The moment their barge is secure, he’s on the dock and off, walking faster than Ford’s ever seen him. He doesn’t ask if Ford wants to come, doesn’t say a word. He just _bolts_ and Ford lets him because what else can he do? Stan’s clearly shaken and Ford…he doesn’t know how to help.

Or maybe he does?

He curses under his breath as he marches below decks and starts research. The internet is a fabulous invention. One Ford himself had toyed with creating before the portal incident. Although his creation had been a little less…primitive. After all, the internet is practically nothing more than a hub for retail sales and pornography. Still, small bits of it store real information, historical documentation, and this is what Ford digs for.

He enters the word ‘Rengar’ in a variety of search engines. It doesn’t take him long. Not at all. Rengar County Jail. Ford blinks at this, does his best to digest it. Jail? Stanley was-?

Ford pushes up his glasses and rubs at his eyes, squeezes the bridge of his nose. No, no – that’s right. Stan _did_ mention serving time. Serving three times, in fact. He’d mentioned it when they’d been fighting before the portal. Yes, it had been several years ago, but Ford remembers it now. Stan said he’d been to jail in three different countries and, at the time, Ford thought that oh so appropriate. His brother, the _criminal_.

He feels sick with the memory of his own superiority, his own _stupidity_. How could he not stop and recognize what Stan had been saying? How could he not hear the pain there? The suffering? Yes, Ford had had his own troubles – Bill chief among them, losing his mind a very close second. But he should have taken a breath, should have relaxed, should have been a civilized fucking human being, something he always claimed to be, and maybe, just maybe they could have healed one another, helped one another.

Instead he escalated everything, made it to the point where it had been a volcano meeting a tornado, two forces of nature erupting into…well, _everything_. Ford curses under his breath. His fault. ALL of it. Stan’s exile, Bill’s arrival, the portal – _all_ of it. He has to atone. Has to do something, _anything_ , to make some right of it. But how?

He opens his eyes and looks at the screen again. Rengar County Jail, right on the very edge of Texas, right near the border. He searches and types and does some rather impressive hacking for a man of his age and experience – not that he is at all intellectually challenged (obviously) but technology of this type is always evolving and to find out what he needs to know…

And there it is. A record, a date, information on Stan’s incarceration. It was a limited stay – only six months served for a three years sentence, a case of smuggling, some questions about the legitimacy of his actions led to a more lenient ruling and –

_It was only my first fucking time. Shouldn’ta happened. Not to me. Not to anybody._

Stan’s words ring through Ford’s mind as if he’s right here, saying them again. No. No, he couldn’t…he couldn’t have possibly meant…Ford can’t even finish the thought. Can’t bear it. Stan must have been talking about being caught, about his sentencing. That fits. That’s better.

To think that Stan faced violence or worse…that couldn’t have happened. That couldn’t have happened to Stanley, not _his_ Stanley.

 _Don’t touch me_!

The memory of those words and the way Stan said them, the look in his eyes, volleys Ford into getting up so fast he knocks his seat over. He paces and tries not to be sick. He feels as if he’s going to vomit any second and his eyes burn with unshed tears. Because no, no, no. Stanley couldn’t have been…

He was in prison and in prison…sometimes…

_Don’t touch me!_

The word, the revolting action, looms before him and his lips move of their own volition, whispering to no one but his own ears, “Raped.”

Ford swallows convulsively, mouth salivating as bile rises to the back of his throat and he’s going to be _sick_. He rushes back up to the top deck and breathes in the fresh air before bending over one side of the boat, dry heaving. He waits, but there’s nothing for him to cast up. Still, he spits over the side, waits for the nausea to pass.

And it does. It passes and morphs, turning over to a hot, uncontrollable rage.

Someone hurt Stanley. Someone used Stanley. Someone had to pay.

Ford doesn’t wait, not another second. He charges down below deck, fires up the time travel device and goes right to the moment and place he knows he needs to.

 

+

 

Stan knows this isn’t Jimmy’s fault.

It couldn’t have been. Jimmy took Stan under his wing when no one else would. Jimmy helped Stan find work. Jimmy orchestrated several jobs and Stan had seen more cash than he’d seen in a long, long time. They were a good team and Stan was part of a crew, a family. God, he’d missed that feeling. But this time, this job?

Stan had just…he’d fucked this one up. It was his fault. What’s new? He messed up. He hadn’t been quick enough, smart enough, so he’d ended up here. Rengar County Jail. It was going to be a short stay. He knew that. After all, Jimmy had gotten him a lawyer. Jimmy had done that. He and the other members of the biker gang had chipped in and gotten him an honest to god _lawyer_ , which was about a million times better than some shitty public defender.

The lawyer guy had had some compelling arguments and enough evidence to cut down Stan’s time significantly. And yes, Stan still had to serve but, again, he deserves it. He fucked up. So he’s going to take his medicine, no matter how unpleasant. And it’s not like he’s scared. He reminds himself of this over and over again as the cops escort him to a cell.

 _Not afraid, not afraid, not afraid, not_ -

The cell door rings open, ominous bars rolling back and Stan does his very best not to gulp like a fucking _baby_ as they walk him in. The officers have been fine so far. Quiet, stern, but fine. They remove his cuffs and gruffly instruct him to move in deeper. He does as asked, acts like a fucking animal being herded and once in, they step back and those bars roll back into place. They _lock_.

The sound of the bars locking, trapping him in, reverberates through his ears. Stan breathes in deeply through his nose because he’s afraid if he doesn’t he’ll _scream_. The cops leave and it’s silent. He looks around his new home for the next…god knows how long…and he suddenly realizes he’s not alone. There’s someone else in here and he’s sitting on a nearby bunk.

He eyes Stan and Stan eyes him back. What the hell is he supposed to do? Is this his…cellmate? Is he supposed to have a cellmate? If so, should he-? Should he try to be friendly? What’s the protocol when you’re in jail? Christ, he never thought he’d go to _jail_. Yes, he’s committed crimes, but he just…he never, ever thought…

“Hey,” his cellmate says and he sounds…normal.

“Hey,” Stan returns. The cellmate stands, enters the light. He doesn’t look so scary. Just an average guy. Like, super average. Blonde hair, blue eyes. Probably a white collar criminal, right? Stan waits, wonders if he should introduce himself. But he doesn’t get the chance to do anything, because the next thing he knows, this guy’s got a grip on him and is manhandling him back against a wall. Stan sputters, tries to talk, but the guy just shushes him, puts a hand firmly over his mouth.

“Hey, hey, look, newbie, just relax. Alright? This’ll go a lot easier if you just relax.”

 _Relax_? Stan thinks and wonders what the guy is talking about and he’s a lot stronger than he looks and he’s pushing him pretty hard against the wall. The painted bricks dig at his face and he’s tense, but he does his best not to struggle. The guy seems to like this, voice soft and hot against the back of Stan’s ear, “Good. That’s good. Now listen, newbie. I’m not going to hurt you. Okay? Nod if you understand.”

Stan nods.

The guy chuckles, “Great. Now, this is your first night, so it’s only natural if you’re a little spooked. All of us were, when we first got here. We all got…hazed. That’s all I’m doing, you know? Giving you a lil’ hazing…”

Stan swallows, blinks, tries to move his mouth, but the hand over it tightens, “Shh, shh! Now, now – no talking, newbie! I don’t want to hear a peep. Not one. You haven’t earned the right to do that yet. Listen, you and me won’t be in here together long. They tend to…move me around a bit. I’m like a welcoming commissioner, I do the hazing and initiations, you know?”

Stan doesn’t, but he has an idea, and it’s turning his blood to ice. Fear roots in his veins, heart pumping, more so as the guy just…rubs against him. Rubs all along him. He presses the full length of his body against Stan’s and he can’t be stronger than Stanley. Physically, he just _can’t_ be. But somehow he _is_. He feels so much stronger, grip tight like iron, one hand on his mouth and the other…

Stan bucks away from it, tries with all his might to push back, because the guy’s other hand is going for the spot right between his legs. Stan hears a dark laugh, “What did I tell you about _relaxing_?”

Relaxing is the opposite of Stan’s actions as he starts to violently struggle. He does his best to open his mouth and bite, to tear with his teeth and the guy must sense it, because he draws back the hand covering Stan’s mouth and he just – both hands go for the threadbare pants Stan’s wearing, tugs them down fast, “ _Fine_! Tried to do this the right way! You remember that, you-!”

Stan’s bare ass is exposed to the breeze and he’s surging back as best he can, trying to knock the guy away from him, _off_ him. His hands struggling to grab his pants, to pull them up and cover himself and he’s hot, burning with humiliation and shame and this guy is still somehow stronger and they’re fighting, struggling and bare skin is touching and-and Stan is lost.

Stan’s always thought of himself as a smooth talker. He can’t talk his way out of this. Stan’s always thought of himself as a good fighter. He’s not sure he can keep fighting. Stan’s always thought of himself as strong, as proud. But right now? Right now he’s nothing more than a frightened _child_. One who wheezes, wailing out thinly, “ _Help_! Somebody! Anybody! Please! _Please_!”

The last ‘please’ is beyond desperate. Pitiful. It borders on a whine and Stan hears someone somewhere snicker. Someone is _laughing_. Some unseen monster in this hellhole is having a good laugh while Stan’s being assaulted.

He can hear shuffling behind him, even as he does his best to combat this, he hears the sound of more moving cloth and he knows his assailant is removing his own pants and he knows…his eyes widen with dead clarity. He just _knows_.

He knows without a doubt what’s going to happen next.

He does his best to quiet his mind. To just – to just let it happen. Get it over with. And a part of him dies inside. It _dies_. He does his best to just…move his thoughts, his very being, somewhere else. Anywhere else. It’s going to happen and he just has to wait it out. Just has to pretend it…it isn’t happening. That he’s fine and safe and that he’s not being violated in the most primal and intimate of ways.

He feels skin on his skin and gulps thickly and then a sound fills the room. A loud, whooshing boom and the next thing Stan knows, he’s completely free. He falls forward, lands face first against the wall and there’s no weight behind him. No one is touching him anymore, no one is grabbing him, no one is _fondling_ him and he turns, hands still fumbling to pull up his pants, cheeks wet from tears he didn’t even know he shed and his _attacker_ is _being_ attacked.

His cellmate is down on the ground and three consecutive snapping sounds bounce off the walls. Stan’s cellmate screams. A high pitched sound, like an animal caught in a steel trap; and Stan’s vision stops swimming as he sees an older man in a trench coat towering over the guy. The cellmate’s arm is in his hands and it looks…wrong. Twisted. The older man snarls, “I’ve broken your arm in three places – want to go for four?”

Stan watches as his cellmate sobs, as he rubs his face against the concrete floor and Stan slowly, ever so slowly, rises. His heart hasn’t stopped pounding, his blood hasn’t warmed up, and he feels like he’s on the verge of hysteria. More so when the older guy turns and looks at him and has Ford’s face. Ford’s face, but aged, and then the memory snaps into place, “N…Nobody?”

The older man gives him a grim look, but Stan knows he’s right. It’s Nobody. It’s his guardian angel. And just like an angel he’s swooped in with a _vengeance_. One not yet completed, as he releases his cellmate’s ruined arm and goes for the other one, “Forget the fourth. Let’s go for symmetry.”

Three more horrible snaps, more squeals of agony. Stan doesn’t know what to do. He just…he holds himself. He watches as his guardian releases the arm he just broke and steps back, looking down at his handiwork. Stan’s cellmate lies on the floor, a puddle of his own piss beneath him, drool escaping his mouth, eyes wild with pain, his limbs at odd angles and then Nobody turns to Stan.

Stan sees Nobody look at him and blinks. Nobody walks over, raises a hand and Stan shrinks back, “ _Don’t touch me_!”

The words rip from his throat, shrill and terrified and so unlike himself. So much so he’s not even sure he’s the one who spoke them until Nobody’s hand lowers and he looks…devastated. Gutted. He gnaws on his lips. Top and bottom.

Ford…Ford used to do that exact same thing. He did it when he was upset. For some reason, seeing the action loosens the tight grip on Stan’s heart. Some of the stark horror fades, blood warming ever so slightly. More so when Nobody just holds out one of his hands. He doesn’t come closer, doesn’t reach for him again. He just holds out his hand, palm up and inviting, and Stan sees all six fingers there.

This time he knows he’s crying and he hates the sob that leaves him, so he does his best to suck it all back in. Saliva, snot, salt water and copper fill his senses and he rubs an arm over his eyes. He’s breathless from all the emotions. The dense wash of them and he feels heavy and lightheaded at the same time. He wavers on his feet and looks at the hand again.

He takes it and Nobody gives it a firm squeeze before pulling out a strange device. He pushes a button and the loud, whooshing boom sounds again. A yellow swirling circle opens and Stan can _see_ thought it. There’s…a parking lot on the other side? It’s like Nobody blew a hole through the cell wall, but he hasn’t. Not at all. It’s…like a portal? Stan just stares through it and Nobody gives him the gentlest of tugs. Stan follows, stepping through the circle.

The boom sound stops and they’re outside. They’re _outside_. They are in a parking lot. It’s…cold. Stan shivers and Nobody easily strips off his trench coat. He places it over Stan’s shoulders and moves with purpose through the lot and Stan…Stan’s starting to think maybe he died. How else could he be here? In some parking lot in the dead of night.

The circle behind them is gone. There’s no sight at all of the cell anymore. It’s as if it never existed. As if they…teleported. Teleported to here and Stan just…looks up.

His eyes are still cloudy with tears and they burn, dry and painful, as he casts his gaze up to see stars. The stars…so far away. Cold and glowing white. He’s captivated by them for god knows how long. Eventually he looks back down to see that the lot they’re in…it’s fenced in. Quite fiercely. He wants to question it, but he doesn’t get a chance before he notices headlights in front of him. His car rumbles up to him and Nobody is behind the wheel.

It’s Stan’s car. His baby. His El Diablo. They’d impounded it and now here it is, waiting for him.

Nobody has had yet to say a word and he parks the car, leaving the engine running as he gets out and opens the back seat. Stan doesn’t say a word himself. He just clambers into the back of the car. He feels like a child. A child huddled up in their parent’s big coat. Nobody shuts the door behind him and then resumes his own seat behind the wheel.

The car rolls forward, towards the front gate. No one stops them. No one sees them. There’s no alarms, no fanfare. They reach the gate and Nobody proves his powers again. He draws out another weird invention, this one from his pants pockets. He pushes some buttons that audibly beep and then the gate just…opens. It opens like it’s totally natural for him to be able to open it, never mind the fact that Nobody clearly isn’t a cop and they’re clearly just leaving the impound lot and jail like it’s no big deal.

Stan should speak up. He should say something. Anything. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t want to. Instead he just huddles deeper into the coat and breathes in his guardian’s scent - chemicals and citrus and _safety_. He stares out the windows, stares at nothing as they just drive. They drive and drive and drive. And slowly the darkness of the night dissolves. It melts, giving way to the light of day. The once dark sky streaks with yellow and orange and as the sun slowly rises, Stan finally, finally falls into the first blissful sleep he’s had in a long time.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to visit me on tumblr: http://cellard00rs.tumblr.com/


End file.
